Yes, Tom, No, Tom
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: You're a snake in every sense of the word—hypnotic, cool, jewel-like. Sly. But I am a lion and sometimes the lion lies in wait, teeth hidden, claws sheathed, then— A smile bubbles out of my mouth, onto my cheeks, and you nod approvingly. "That's it. Smile for me. Don't let's quarrel." "No, Tom." Ginny/Tom. Dark. Slight AU.


You are such a fool.

You are such a fool and I lovehate you, you beautiful, knife-white fool with caressing, cold fingertips and there are pieces of your jealousy splattered like freckles all over my neck and you are _such a fool._

"Ginevra," you say, soft, slow, luminous. "Ginevra, you know I love you, don't you?"

I catch my butterfly breath with a careful net. Lower my eyes as your mouth touches my throat.

"Yes, Tom."

"Good," you say, and your voice is all steel and velvet again. Your hand finds my open white thigh—my open white thigh of eleven years, you're a sick, sick fool—and you mark a leisurely path, map your course to the New World. My eyes are closed and I look at the neon imprint of your face in the blackness and smile.

"Ginevra, one day I will assume my rightful place…and you shall be my queen."

Liar. You're lying to me, liar, liar, liar—but that's alright, because I am lying to you with my _yes, Toms_ and _no, Toms_ and you think you're staining and stealing my soul but you're not. I'm staining yours—I'm staining yours because I'm making you jealous, making you writhe (you sick fuck) over a pale, matted-lashed eleven year old girl.

"I know."

"Remember that," you whisper, and your words are a warning. "Remember that, and don't think about Harry Potter."

"No, Tom."

"_No, Tom_," you mock, because you are beautiful and covetous. "Don't be unfaithful, Ginevra."

I look up at you, hold your gaze for a moment—you stare back with grim pleasure in me, in your moon-slathered conquest. You don't know, you don't know—you think you're luring me onto the altar. You're a snake in every sense of the word—hypnotic, cool, jewel-like. Sly.

But I am a lion and sometimes the lion lies in wait, teeth hidden, claws sheathed, then—

A smile bubbles out of my mouth, onto my cheeks, and you nod approvingly.

"That's it. Smile for me. Don't let's quarrel."

"No, Tom."

You are such a fool, such a beautiful fool, and I'm ruining you. I blush for you, stammer, play the girl staring up out of an adoring chasm—but really it's not like that, is it? You ghost your fingertips across my leg and I force a shiver—you whisper gentle threats in my ear, mingle them with your frosted endearments, and I stand poker still and swallow, while my heart bangs with an excitement that smells just enough like fear to pass muster.

_You are so lovely, Ginevra—I would hate to hurt you_…

_Will you?_

_Helicopter lashes, feigned, bated breath. Your smirk is sensual and dripping and contemptuous. _

_Not unless you make me, darling._

You hate to talk about Harry, and you think I don't know why. But I do. I know your jealousy, you sick, stupid fuck, and while you think you're playing games with my (still, silent, hollow) heart I'll be in the background, playing my own little game—the game of _yes, Tom, no, Tom_.

_Ginevra_, you said in the diary days, in your elegant, spidery script, _you are too good for someone like Harry Potter_.

Even then, I knew you, knew your fleeting flattery and careful chords. But here you were right—whether you knew it or not.

I am.

But I want him anyway. You know all about that, don't you—wanting something you think beneath you.

(Oh, you think I don't know, think I don't know, you wait you wait you wait)

I want him, and you—you, you stellar boy, you who wraps universes around your long piano fingers like skeins of red thread—you're just a _diversion_, and I keep you because you're _useful._

(You wait you wait soon you'll be gone but I'll remain)

Not because I like your slow, careless hands on me.

I don't. It's boring.

But you, _Tom Marvolo Riddle_, are useful because by outmanipulating the manipulator I'm learning. You laugh at me now with your velvet, knife-edged laugh because I'm small and pale with explosive hair. But one day

(I'll remain lone and bright and _victorious_)

One day I'll be older and I will be alluring and if I can, I will be beautiful. One day I'll drive them out of their fucking _minds._ One day (when you're _gone_, Tommy boy, _all gone_) Harry Potter will covet me. Covet me consumingly. Devastatingly. And I'll know because I've learned from you and I'll wrap him around my fingers like skeins of red thread and

(lone and bright and victorious because your soul's in raggedy pieces but mine is pulsing and neon and whole)

and force blood into my calm, cold cheeks and murmur

_Yes, Harry_.


End file.
